Though Lucian's anger burned hot, it never clouded his mind. Before the misbegotten could close in, he reached for the Spirit Calling Bell and gave it a gentle shake.
Magic surged through the air, answering his call. From the current coalesced the half-transparent form of the great Stormhawk Deenh.
It had been far too long since the Stormhawk Deenh had stretched its wings. With a powerful beat, the majestic bird unfurled them wide, feeling the world's air currents rush against its feathers. Joy at returning to life after such a long slumber filled its chest, and it released a piercing cry that split the battlefield.
The leading misbegotten froze in place. The cry carried the weight of an apex predator; they could feel their place in the order of life, and fear rooted them to the ground.
Lucian felt power surge through his limbs—the buff carried by the hawk's cry.
But the hesitation didn't last. More and more misbegotten gathered, and those first few, seeing their numbers swell, found their courage again. They screeched back, their guttural cries filling the air.
Lucian stepped toward them, boots squelching in the blood-soaked earth. This ground was stained by crimes that could never be forgiven. Now, it was time to pay blood for blood.
The Stormhawk Deenh beat its wings once, then launched into the sky. With a sudden dive, its talons crashed into a misbegotten's skull, shattering bone before it rose back into the air to hunt for its next target.
The others, enraged by the kill, charged as one.
Lucian gripped his halberd with both hands and swung in a wide arc. Those in the front ranks were either cleaved in half by the axe-blade or gutted by the spear-point. Yet the sheer mass of enemies surged in from every side.
He poured the last of his magic into the weapon, then slammed his foot into the earth.
A storm erupted out of nothing, its winds battering the misbegotten into chaos. Razor-edged gusts peeled flesh from bone, while shattered fragments of the dead, still laced with hatred, spun through the maelstrom like shrapnel—embedding deep into living flesh. The unlucky ones were struck in vital points and fell instantly.
When the wind died, several misbegotten lay dead, and over a dozen more were grievously wounded.
Lucian knew the truth—his own strength alone could never have produced such a storm. The Ancient King's hand was in this, guiding and shaping the deadly currents. Of course… Castle Morne had once been part of the Storm King's domain. To see its lands defiled by creatures like these would surely rouse his wrath.
The first wave had been shattered, but more poured from the city. Hulking, scale-plated misbegotten leapt from the walls. Winged ones circled on the rooftops, while swarms of common misbegotten burst from doorways and alleys.
There were far more than in the game—and they called reinforcements from even further away.
Still, Lucian didn't falter. He pulled out his Flask of Cerulean Tears and drank deep, magic refilling his veins.
"Come, beasts," he growled. "I'll make you weep and beg for the freedom you stole."
Edgar sat slumped on a bench, gazing at the townsfolk crowded in the room. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him—he had not rested since the day before.
The rebellion had come without warning. At the sound of a monstrous roar, misbegotten everywhere had gone mad. They snatched up whatever weapons they could find and began slaughtering the people of the castle.
At first, it was farm tools—hatchets, hammers—but once they broke into the armory, the situation worsened beyond control.
Castle Morne, on the outermost edge of the realm, was large but not heavily armed. It served mainly as a training ground for Lord Godrick's soldiers. Since the Tarnished had returned to the Lands Between, Godrick had pulled away many troops, leaving only a handful of patrolmen and a permanent garrison of little more than thirty.
Against an external army, Morne's position and siege equipment could hold off hundreds. But against a rebellion from within, there was no way to suppress it quickly—not even to get orders passed in time.
The townsfolk never had a chance to flee. With too few soldiers to guard them, they were dragged away one by one.
Edgar had done all he could, gathering what troops remained and rescuing maybe a hundred or two at most. But despair and fear hung over the survivors like a shroud.
He buried his face in his hands. Skilled as he was—having inherited the full martial skill of a Banished Knight from his father—against hundreds of misbegotten, his blade was useless. Most of his men were dead or dying; barely a dozen still fought, guarding the outside of this very building.
All they could do now was hold this room and protect the last of the townsfolk.
And he could only pray for his daughter, Irina.
He had sent her away with a patrol and a few others to seek help—not because he believed help would come. No, he believed Morne was already lost. By the time Godrick's forces arrived, there would be no one left alive. All that mattered was getting Irina to safety. It was the selfish choice of a father who knew he could not protect her here.
"Lord Edgar!"
A young soldier burst into the room, breathless.
"What is it? Have the misbegotten broken through?!" Edgar shot to his feet, snatching up his halberd.
"No! Someone's outside—fighting them! They came in from beyond the walls!"
"What?" Edgar's eyes widened. Could it truly be rescue? "How many?"
"Just one—but I think there must be more behind them!"
The hope died almost instantly. If there were more, they would not send only one ahead. A lone warrior against hundreds of misbegotten was just another corpse waiting to fall.
Gritting his teeth, Edgar barked, "You and the others stay here and keep the townsfolk safe. I'll go to them myself."
It would be disgraceful for the lord of the castle to sit idle while a stranger fought and died for Morne.
The defenses would hold for a while longer without him. If nothing else, he could stand alongside this nameless fighter and take some misbegotten with him before the end.
Refusing the young soldier's offer to accompany him, Edgar strode into the corridor. The halls were eerily empty—the misbegotten had all been drawn to the outsider's battle.
Hold on…
When he reached the wall and looked down, his breath caught.
The lone warrior was drenched in blood, though Edgar could not tell whose. Around him lay countless corpses, mangled beyond recognition.
At that moment, the warrior gripped a scale-plated misbegotten by its hair, a scavenged cleaver in his other hand. He ignored the claws raking across his body and hacked again and again until the creature's head was severed.